Kersplat, I Fall...Alot!

If you’re an Adult figure skater you better get used to left-handed compliments. Your well-meaning friends and family probably only have a passing acquaintance with the sport. When you tell them you’re a figure skater, they expect you to look like the skaters they see on TV. Even when you give them ample warning, they’ll expect you skate like Michelle Kwan. When they actually see you skate, they’ll get an embarrassed, frozen smile on their face and helplessly say something like, “Gosh, that was really something!”

You may also hear, “You’re so brave!”

Among my fellow adult skaters I get a lot of gushing praise for my ability to fall. To wit: a fellow skater told me I was an inspiration because I’m not afraid to fall. Another asked, “How do you do it? How do you fall so well?!”

The snarky answer is, of course, “Gravity!” But what these colleagues really mean is that I clearly push myself beyond a certain comfort zone and will risk my physical well-being to learn something different.

Unlike tons of adult skaters, I am completely unafraid to fall.

This (insane) component of my skating career has served me well. There’s no way I would’ve learned to do any of my jumps without several rounds of kersplatting.  I’ve lost track of all the times I’ve bitten it on the ice but among my finer moments, I’ve fallen on:

Forward crossovers

Backward crosovers

Mohawks

Three-turns

Spirals

Edges

Every single jump I’ve ever attempted

Every single spin

Most of the time these falls are benign. When I feel I’m losing my balance I just go ahead and plant my butt on the ice.  Occasionally, it feels like a spanking; rarely, I actually hurt myself. I’ve gotten good at muttering the F-bomb into my sleeve.

I find it dismaying that so many adults are horrified to fall. The kids do it all the time. Heck, watch those skaters on TV—in some competitions it’s a splat fest.

So people, I do in fact have something in common with “real” figure skaters after all.

One of my favorite figure skating terms is “helicoptering”  a spin. This word characterizes a huge goof where a skater loses his entry edge and causes the free foot to pitch up and around the air, flinging the hapless skater forward onto the ice. It’s a scary mistake.

My first experience with this phenomenon occurred a few years ago. I tried pushing into a spin and suddenly found myself airborne. I had no time to reach out to break my fall and ended up smashing the left side of my body onto the ice. I could hear the meaty splat and the echoing thud. I thought I was okay but then my head whacked the hard surface. 

I was dazed but relieved to have survived the impact. Then I noticed the blood pooling onto the ice. Yikes! I stood up and a gush of red blinded me. I began to mew in the back of my throat and immediately skated off to see if I had still had a face. Luckily I didn’t need stitches but I had a black eye worthy of Raging Bull. 

Since that day, I’ve heliocoptered a few more spins. One time I managed to get my feet beneath me and landed in a bizarre crouch configuration. Coachie was nonplussed. “Nice save,” she said.

Come to think of it, all my self-inflicted abuse doesn’t faze Coachie. Once I fell backwards in a sit spin and bonked my head. An involuntary little scream came out; it sounded something like the alarm call our hominoid ancestors might have made: “Help there’s a lion!” or “Oh my God, a snake is going to eat me!”

I found myself flat on my back looking at the rink ceiling. Little shiny comets were bursting among the rusty beams and metal sheathing. It was quite pretty. I could of stayed like that for quite spell, but I heard the sound of rushing blades and looked up to see Coachie’s face.

“Are you alright?”

I gave a robust thumbs up.

It could have been my brain-addled imagination, but it seemed that Coachie looked relieved. She then collected herself and admonished me, “Keep your weight forward on your blade.,” and added, “That’s why we wear ponytails—to break our falls!”

She skated back to her waiting student.